Rules of Reality

January 3, 2010
For a while, the girl is absolutely still, the warm desert air blowing her hair across her face as she sits. Thoughtfully, she picks up a handful of sand and let it sift through her fingers, into her waiting hand below. Some thing strange happened to the sand as it falls through the air. Each individual grain sparkles, sparkles many times brighter than it should, even in the most brilliant sunshine. Now in her cupped palm, the girl holds a bright white liquid. The molten glass (for that’s the only thing it could be) looks like miniature sun in her small hands. Then she tosses it up, into the air, making it spin as a chef would a pizza. When it comes to rest in her hands again, it is a solid plane of glass, a perfect circle. Satisfied, she plucks a stalk of desert grass and proceeds to run her thumb and index finger over the tip until it has sharpened to a point. Using her quill, she carefully etches her message into the glass slate. Finished with her note, she runs her fingers along the edge of the circle, folding the rim down as easily as if it were molding clay. The thing now resembles a frisbee. The girl stands up, one hand brushing the dust off her skirt, the other grasping the glass disk. Then she throws, sending it spinning off into the horizon. She watches as it gains speed and altitude, growing brighter and brighter all the way. Finally, with a twinkle, it winks out of sight.

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